Date: Wed, 13 Dec 2017 16:15:17 +0000 (UTC)
From: Skorpio
Subject: World Class Cocksucker - 4 (author, interr)
If this erotic tale of Black Domination and white submission is to your
liking, be a good faggot and make a donation to Nifty Archives. Don't put
off doing it. Don't wait to be reminded. Do the right thing.
Drake McKeefer and the World Class Cocksucker,
or
Black Magick Dick,
by Skorpio
Chapter 7: Five Men and a Faggot, or Open Mouth, Insert Dick
Mitchell descended to the basement where he felt comfortable among the
other old, discarded, unwanted things held in storage against potential
need. He had mixed emotions about the two sluts who were servicing his
men. On one hand, he could do a much better job than they could. On the
other, whatever made his men happy, made him happy.
Nonetheless, it was frustrating being pushed off DeVaughn's cock just when
he was getting started. Mitchell wanted that chocolate sausage. Never
before had he enjoyed so much cock. Friday night's orgy of cock was like
nothing he had ever experienced. The sensory overload was too much to
process. And yet, he wanted more!
In the dark, chill hour before dawn, Mitchell woke up shivering, and could
not go back to sleep. Curling up in a fetal position for warmth, he thought
about the two lusty black studs upstairs who were getting laid or sleeping
soundly after the fact. It would be nice if one of them crept downstairs
for a decent blowjob. A bellyful of lava from an active African volcano
would warm him up nicely.
It was cold in the basement. The only sound was the soft rumble of the
furnace. Heavier blankets would come in handy, definitely a few more
appurtenances, but he could get accustomed to this. With real men living in
his house, this was where he belonged.
He was forty-eight years old. What a waste his life had been, caring about
no one but himself, squandering money on things he did not need. A pompous,
useless fool all alone in his ivory tower with no practical, real world
skills. Except one: sucking cock. That was the one and only thing he was
actually good for. Real men needed and deserved competent cocksuckers. What
they did not need was yet another silly, affected poet.
Mitchell was awake when the alarm clock went off at six. This gave him time
to freshen up and get breakfast underway. Since both of his men had
overnight guests, he decided to set two more of the good dishes and cook
twice as much. There was no telling when they would wake or even come
downstairs, but Mitchell wanted everything to be ready.
He hummed happily as he moved about the kitchen, beating eggs, brewing
coffee, slicing potatoes and onions. It was like running a bed and
breakfast. He should have been an innkeeper, but only for real men like
Drake and DeVaughn. Mitchell Montague, full-service host and world class
cocksucker.
It was almost eleven when the men came downstairs in boxers and
wifebeaters. Their female guests did not stay for breakfast, although they
wanted to. Drake and DeVaughn ushered them out the door into a waiting taxi
with practiced ease. Then, they threw down with wolfish appetites consuming
every morsel Mitchell had prepared.
After breakfast, both men withdrew to the living room to smoke a cigarette
and watch college basketball. When Mitchell finished up in the kitchen, he
was told to join them. Drake said: "That was a good meal, bitch. Nah, it
was excellent. You should thank me for letting you cook our breakfast."
"Thank you, sir," said Mitchell, dazed into total submission by the sight
of two black men in their underwear, knowing what was hidden beneath the
cotton fabric. "Thank you for letting me cook for you."
DeVaughn laughed.
"You're welcome, bitch," said Drake. "I think you're finally getting the
big picture. Now take a squat on the floor, and not a peep, until I decide
what to do with you next."
It no longer felt like his living room. Nothing had changed, and yet
everything was different. Any other Sunday morning, Mitchell would be in
his robe and slippers, sipping tea, reading the New York Times while
watching Meet the Press, and whatever travel, cooking, or decorating shows
followed.
Now tobacco smoke hung like a canopy, athletes flashed across on the TV
screen, he was on his knees, a humble servant in his own home, and he was
content. Submissively content, knowing sooner or later he would be called
upon to serve the best way he knew how. Why had none of the white jocks he
serviced made him feel this way? What was so different about black men? Why
did servicing them inspire him to utter servility?
Their strength and virility was a mystery to Mitchell. There was definitely
something very special about Drake's cock. It really was the best cock in
the world. But DeVaughn was not far behind. Just thinking about their black
cocks made the faggot's mouth water.
A short time later, the doorbell rang: Windsor chimes. Mitchell's face
drained white with panic. He could not imagine anyone coming to his door on
a Sunday.
"That's Rayshawn," said Drake. "I told him to stop by."
Mitchell sighed with relief and calmed down. He liked Rayshawn, or at least
his long, pole-like cock. There was something menacing or dangerous about
Rayshawn that Mitchell did not sense from Drake or DeVaughn, no matter how
roughly they spoke to him. Yet it was not an unwelcome thrill.
Rayshawn had weed, some to sell, some to share. He was wearing the same
throwback jersey he had on the other night. Looked like he had not
slept. He plopped down at one end of the sectional while Mitchell, directed
by a single glance from Drake, scurried to fetch him a beer.
"I left out your party around midnight," said Rayshawn. "I was pretty
buzzed. Got into some shit with my old lady when I got home. Bitch wanted
to know where I had been. She said she could smell pussy on my dick. I told
her I wasn't near no pussy, and you know that's the damn truth. She kicked
me out the crib. Told me I can't stay there no more if she can't trust me."
"That's fucked up, man," said DeVaughn.
"Could you cats do me a solid? Tell that cunt I wasn't around no females
Friday night. Tell her I was just chillin' with the fellas. I got no place
to stay, man."
Drake took a joint from Rayshawn and sparked it. He took a long deep
satisfying hit. Cannabis was clearly a gift from God. That was the only
proof of His existence needed. And this was some good shit. Drake's feline
eyes shone with a pearly luster. He expelled a cloud of smoke, and stroked
his chin.
"We can do that, blood, no problem," he said. "Bro's before ho's, am I
right? But I have a better idea. Why don't you move in with me and
DeVaughn? There's another room upstairs. Rent free. We another brother
around to help keep this faggot busy."
"Is that okay with the cocksucker?" Rayshawn looked over at Mitchell on his
knees, eyes downcast, hands behind his back. "He still owns this crib,
right?"
"He holds the deed," said Drake. "But I own him, you feel me, bruh?"
"Never doubted you for a minute," affirmed Rayshawn. They dapped, and then
Rayshawn bumped fists with DeVaughn.
"Three house rules," said Drake. "Number One: no slangin' weed on the
premises, except to me or Vaughn. Take that business down the street where
you been dealing it. Number Two: watch who you bring home with
you. Remember we got a faggot here the grapevine. Number Three: Enjoy the
good life, my brother! Welcome to 420 Woodpecker Lane where the Black Man
is King and the white man knows his place."
The three men lifted their bottles of imported beer in a toast, and another
joint was passed around. When Rayshawn asked why nobody was getting their
dick sucked, DeVaughn explained, "My shit is sore from that all-night
pussy." Drake said: "My dick doesn't get sore, but I need to take a
break. There's more to life than blowjobs."
"We'll have to agree to disagree," said Rayshawn.
At Drake's behest, Mitchell showed Rayshawn his new room. The large bed was
fitted with green sheets, a quilted comforter, and more than enough
pillows. Rayshawn inspected the empty bureau and closet, while Mitchell
waited patiently to be dismissed.
"What's the matter with you?" said Rayshawn. "You want something?"
"I'm fine, sir," Mitchell fidgeted.
"Nah, I think you want something," Rayshawn went on. "You want some dick,
don't you."
This was not really a question, not the way Rayshawn said it, but Mitchell
felt compelled to answer. "Yes, sir." Although his face reddened, it was
excitement not shame that brought blood to his pasty cheeks.
Rayshawn: "I know you been thinking about my dick. You couldn't get enough
of this shit Friday night. I watched you chow down like it was the last
dick on earth. You're glad I'm movin' in, right?"
"Yes, sir," said Mitchell.
"You take orders pretty good," Rayshawn snickered. "Drake got your cracker
ass trained. That's sweet. But I see one thing he's doing wrong. He's not
feeding you enough dick, is he. That's a problem. You need dick and he's
not giving you none. Don't you worry. I'm gonna make sure you get all the
dick you want. How's that sound? Sound good?"
"It sounds good, sir."
"Anytime you want some dick, come to me first, aiiight?" Rayshawn declared,
with an air of magnanimity. Then, he lowered his voice as if he did not
want anyone else to hear: "I'll feed you plenty. You and me, we gonna be
real tight. Them other ones, they don't know how to appreciate a
bitch. Don't worry about them. I'm the brother you wanna look out for. I'm
the one you want giving the orders, understand me?"
"Yes, sir," said Mitchell, softly. He thought of more to say, but held his
tongue. It had finally sunk in that his share of any exchange with these
domineering men was pretty much limited to "yes, sir," and "no, sir." He
knew they were not interested in his opinions.
In fact, he had not followed everything Rayshawn was saying. It was hard
for him to think clearly in the presence of such a sexy man, and because
his mind was on something else. Every so often he could make out the
distinct, tantalizing outline of Rayshawn's pole beneath his loose-fitting,
black mesh basketball shorts.
"Come over here and give me one of them world class super jobs," said
Rayshawn. "See, I'm not even in the mood right now, but I'm doing this for
you. I want my bitch to be happy. That's how I roll."
With Rayshawn perched on the edge of the bed, and Mitchell between his
legs, the deed was consummated. Once more, Mitchell provided a blowjob
exceeding all expectations. Deep-throating something like Rayshawn's long,
wooden baton had to be carefully and attentively executed. Every cock
responded differently, each one had its own unique personality.
Rayshawn ejaculated on the cocksucker's face. Sperm trickled from his brows
and oozed down his cheeks like molten pearls. There were gobs of cum
sticking to his lips and chin. Mitchell's fluent tongue tried to scoop up
as much as he could.
"Don't worry, little bitch," comforted Rayshawn. "There's more where that
came from. I'll shoot down your throat next time. You come back when you
want some more, aiiight?"
"Okay, I mean, yes, sir," said Mitchell.
"Know what?" said Rayshawn, pulling up his shorts. "You come see me later
anyway. I'll give you some more dick. I know that wasn't enough for you. I
could tell you didn't want me to cum. That's why you got a facial. Next
time, suck my dick the way I tell you and don't worry about if I cum too
soon or not. That's not in your job description. Now get out of here. Don't
wash up. Go show Drake what you look like."
Mitchell scurried out of the bedroom, and down the stairs. He heard deep,
booming, unfamiliar voices. What was he walking into now, he wondered. He
completely forgot about his cum-spattered face.
In the living room, Drake and DeVaughn had visitors. Mitchell recognized
Leroy, and remembered his big brown rubbery cock. Beside him stood a
slovenly dressed, heavy-set black man with a round face and shaved
head. They were talking and laughing until Mitchell entered.
"Dayumm, bitch, you look nasty as fuck!" exclaimed DeVaughn.
The cum on Mitchell's face had not yet turned to jelly or dried up, and if
someone had asked, he would have informed them it still felt quite
warm. The potency of African seed has no equal.
"I'm not sure if that's disgusting or an improvement," Drake
laughed. "Wade, allow me to introduce the world class cocksucker! Should we
tell it to wash up before you get better acquainted?"
"You can wipe the skeet off a slut, but she's still a slut," said Wade.
"True that," said Drake.
"It's up to Leroy," shrugged Wade. "What do you say, man?"
Said Leroy: "I say let's not waste time. This bitch is gonna look way worse
than this after we get done with her.
Mitchell obediently trotted after Leroy and Wade into the den. The louvered
doors closed behind them. Drake went upstairs to see how Rayshawn was
making out. DeVaughn had to take a shit.
An hour later, the louvered doors opened. Leroy and Wade walked out,
buckling their belts. Crawling on his hands and knees behind them came
Mitchell the cocksucker foaming at the mouth with spit and gobs of cum
streaming down his face.
"Thanks for letting us use your faggot," said Wade.
"It's cool," said Drake. "You were doing me a solid. That's why DeVaughn
and Rayshawn stay here. Takes a lot of dick to keep this faggot in the
proper mindset, know what I'm saying?"
"I get it, bruh," said Leroy. "Keep feeding her dick. Don't give the bitch
a chance to catch her breath."
"Exactly," said Drake.
"We'll be back," said Wade. "You don't got to worry about this cocksucker
going hungry."
"You got yourself a professional cocksucker there," said Leroy. "If there
was an Olympics for sucking dick, she would win the gold fucking medal."
"That's what I keep saying," said Drake. "A world class cocksucker!"
Chapter 8: Catch a Cracker by the Toe, or If He Hollers, Beat His Faggot
Ass
Monday dawned bright and early. Mitchell emerged from the basement to
shower quickly in the downstairs bathroom, get dressed for work, and fix
eggs and sausage for Drake who was also up getting ready for work. There
was plenty of food left for DeVaughn and Rayshawn whenever they got
up. Mitchell would have to scrub the pans and plates soon as he got
home. Looking after three men was going to keep him very busy.
For Mitchell, there was a moment of anxiety in which he dreaded leaving the
house being away from his three Masters. Sometimes Mitchell saw Drake
delivering mail to the English department. What would those encounters be
like now? Mitchell knew Drake would not say or do anything in public to
embarrass him. But what if Mitchell embarrassed himself? What if he slipped
and called Drake "Sir" in front of other people? It could happen. He had to
be careful.
Drake never came by the building, but he did send Mitchell a text around
11:45. "Take me to lunch bitch. Waiting by your car." Mitchell groaned with
joy.
First, they stopped at a deli where Mitchell ran in and bought two hoagies
and cokes. Drake told Mitchell to drive to the large park at the edge of
town where there was a lake with dockage for small boats, picnic areas,
paved bike and jogging trails, and winding paths that disappeared into the
leafy woods.
Drake picked out a remote picnic table near the edge of the woods to sit
awhile. Drake wolfed down his sandwich, and drained the bottle of
soda. Mitchell was too nervous to eat, but he did take little sips to keep
his mouth and throat from turning dry. Their conversation was
one-sided. Drake did all the talking, and Mitchell did all the
listening. How could it be otherwise? What could this faggot possibly have
to say that a real man would want to hear?
"This is my private spot," said Drake. "I used to come up here with this
chick, and we would sit together looking out at the lake. It was so fucking
romantic, not that you could possibly understand. All a faggot thinks about
is dick. That's your focus. You are a creature of lust, not passion. You're
like a dog. You don't love other dogs. The only love you have is for your
master. I saw the way you looked at me when you came out to the car. If you
had a tail, it would have been wagging. I know you love me, bitch, so why
don't take me into the woods, down that path over there, and show your
master some love before I have to get back to work."
There are few things better than a blowjob alfresco. You feel like an
exhibitionist. A breeze caresses your dick and balls before the cocksucker
gets to work. You lean against a tree. You smell the leaves, bark, ferns,
soil. You are restored to nature, the savage garden, while a diligent mouth
worships your dick. All is right with the world.
Mitchell was grateful for this midday shot of life. He spent the rest of
the afternoon thinking about Drake's perfect cock when he should have been
reviewing faculty performance percentiles. Drake had a class in the evening
so he would not be home until late. That meant DeVaughn and Rayshawn would
be in charge. Anything could happen.
As soon as Mitchell got home, he changed into jeans and a
tee-shirt. DeVaughn and Rayshawn were in their rooms. There were breakfast
dishes in the sink, and numerous mugs, tumblers, and wine glasses, to clean
before getting dinner started. He wondered what his men would want?
"Fried chicken!" hollered Rayshawn from his room like he read the faggot's
mind. "Fried chicken!" echoed DeVaughn. At least that was settled.
The men ate when they felt like it in the living room, watching Dish
Nation. Mitchell cleaned up, did a load of laundry for Rayshawn, and at
DeVaughn's insistence scrubbed the porcelain in the upstairs bathroom even
though it was gleaming.
"I want you to clean that bathroom every day no matter what," said
DeVaughn. "It's not what the bathroom needs. It's what you need. You need
to scrub a toilet every day of your life."
While Mitchell was polishing the rim of the toilet, Rayshawn came in to
take a piss. Mitchell attempted to move out of the way, but was told to
stay right where he was. Rayshawn unzipped his pants. Out sprang his long,
brown, flaccid cock.
"Hold it while I piss," said Rayshawn.
The slender, flexible pole of meat in Mitchell's hand pulsed and wriggled
as a golden stream of urine splashed the water in the bowl. Mitchell looked
up as Rayshawn looked down at him with a crafty expression.
It took a long time for Rayshawn to empty his bladder. When he was finally
done, he ordered the cocksucker to lick the meatus perfectly
clean. Mitchell was more than happy to rescue a few drops of piss with his
tongue.
"See how good I treat you?" said Rayshawn. "I know what you need. We can
finish this in my room. You're a world class cocksucker. You should be
sucking dick all the time. That's why I'm gonna let you focus on my dick to
your heart's content. You're gonna be my special little bitch from now on,
aren't you. I know you gave Drake a blowjob for lunch. If he doesn't wanna
hook up tomorrow, get your ass back here for lunch so you can suck my dick
instead. Yeah, boy-eee, you and me, my obedient little white faggot bitch,
that's how it's gonna be. Drake doesn't know how to look after a critter
like you, but I sure as hell do, and I will beat your scrawny white ass if
you give me any trouble."
TO BE CONTINUED...